Roses
by Canadian Hero
Summary: Yet, the British teenager was jolted out of his shock by a sound he hadn't heard in a long time, and never, not ever, from the one figure behind him. He was afraid to turn around. Arthur was afraid to turn around to the sound of choked sobs. He did anyway. And Arthur never hugged- he was anything but a hugger. But then again, Francis was suppose to be anything but a crier, right?


**Roses**

* * *

Francis didn't know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he had tripped over the window sill - even after the night was over.

He did curse, however, the fact that he discovered then that Englishmen could be rather light sleepers.

Indeed, the petite lump of messy blonde hair and loose mint pajamas was already restlessly tossing about, and the best Francis could do was freeze like a deer caught in headlights. One foot was hanging outside the window, his face on the floor, and his arms guardedly protected the gift hugged to his chest. Francis was in no position to make a run for it, and he could practically hear a clock ticking by every second.

There was a soft groan, and the French boy winced in an expression only made when unrealised and irrational hopes were dashed. He, in a vain attempt to hide, clumsily dragged his foot from the window and glued himself to the side of the bed - but it was no use. There was a groggy huff, and the sound of uncoordinated hands fumbling for something in the dark. Then, light. Francis let out a small noise of protest at the unprepared assault against his eyes, and instantly regretted the impulsive expressionalism.

"What the-?" came a half thought out sentence from above Francis as the bed sheets were moved. He immediately attempted to dive underneath the bed, only to find out the hard way that the bed frame was sitting fully on the ground. There was a loud thump signifying the contact of a stupid head against wood. Well, so much for that.

The movements from the bed became more rushed as the person waking up was jolted into alertness. They left the bed and had their two feet on the ground near Francis' face before he could contemplate whether or not jumping from the two story high window in front of him had better chances of survival than staying where he was and having to face a certain Englishman's wrath. He figured that it did by the time there were two legs standing in front of him. "-the bloody-_Francis?"_ exclaimed an English accent, staring down at the boy awkwardly kneeling in front of him with incredulous eyes.

Francis gave a nervous chuckle. "Well, mon ami, I am called Francis but I don't believe I am very bloody-"

"Your face will be bloody if you don't explain to me what in the blazes you're doing right next to my bed at 1AM!"

Francis' eyes darted quickly towards the digital clock stationed beside the other boy's bed. 1:03AM. Shit. He looked back up at the boy. "Arthur, do calm your voice, I'm afraid you might wake your parents-"

"And what part of that is bad, you_ wanker_?"

Francis didn't really know how to respond to the thirteen year old English boy in front of him. The sole fact that a sixteen year old boy like Francis was sneaking into the other's room at night was suspicious, but add his well-known 'reputation' on top of that? There was no getting out of the situation. He tried, anyway. At least Arthur still seemed too disorientated from abruptly waking up to be strangling him at the moment. Francis figured he had maybe a few seconds left with the ability to breathe freely. "Lower your voice and I'll explain-"

"You'd better explain, whether I bloody lower my voice or not!"

"But I can't very well explain if we have your parents call the police in the middle of the night on me, now can I?" Arthur huffed indignantly, face already flushed angrily at Francis' random moment of logic. "And," added the French teenager, "the fact that you seem to enjoy interrupting me as much as possible isn't helping."

Arthur scowled deeply at Francis, ready to retort with an even louder volume of voice than before, until he glimpsed something in Francis' arms. Actually, if he would backtrack, Arthur would realise that Francis was hugging his arms to his chest as if they were his lifeline. Arthur was about to demand to know what it was, but Francis had already followed Arthur's eyes and only gripped whatever it was tighter.

"Ah," Francis said before Arthur could get a word out of his mouth, "your house is very cold, is it not? I'm practically shaking!"

"Shut it, frog," Arthur ground out, stepping forward, "give me whatever that is in your hands."

"I have nothing in my hands,_ rosbif_. As I said, I'm simply cold."

"It's April."

"So? April is still cold."

"Then why am I standing here sweating?"

Francis looked Arthur up and down with theatrical head movements before speaking. "Because you're angry, and you tend to have the habit of overheating while angry."

"I do not, you blasted-"

"May I tell you that you're not very attractive while you're panting like that? You look like a dog."

Arthur's ears turned cherry at the insult, and he angrily flustered out, "Since when did you find dogs unattractive? You've probably wanked to a few, if not actually done them, in your lifetime."

Francis opened his mouth to retort to that, but promptly closed it. Of course he hadn't. But everyone else thought he'd do something so low, so he might as well play along with it. No one would believe him otherwise. He shrugged and smiled at Arthur. "I didn't know a virgin like you could have such dirty thoughts, _chien."_

"It's impossible to not be contaminated by the likes of you, frog! And, for the record, I am not a virgin."

"Oh, that's right. Your home of London is known for it's sky high prostitution, am I right? Who was it - Alfred? It would make sense."

Arthur's face went an even darker shade, and he marched towards Francis who smartly backed away. "What gives you the sudden assumption that I'm a poof?"

"Only," Francis began, pausing to gesture towards all of Arthur's body and room, "that."

Arthur looked about ready to screech, so Francis took the quick option and planted his palm against the blonde boy's mouth. Emerald eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing into a glare as his voice was muffled. He attempted biting the French teenager, trying to avoid all contact with his tongue and Francis' hands, but Francis didn't intent on letting Arthur go. He sighed, and Arthur froze for a second at the uncharacteristically depressed sound coming from the other's throat. "I can't tell you why I am here, but I'll lea-"

Taking Francis off guard, Arthur slapped him across the cheek, prompting Francis to let go, and stared at the hand Francis still had pressed against his own chest. "What the bloody hell is that?"

There was a beat of silence after Francis gasped at the realisation that he had half uncovered the object he had been trying to hide where neither of them moved. Then, Francis covered it back up again with both of his hands and began backing up towards the window. "Oh, this? This is nothing, you see. I was just coming back from a date. Remember the pretty girl who sits in front of you in maths class? Yes, her. I bought her some roses, and I just happened to have one left over so I was going to take it back home and put it in water-" Francis didn't bother to acknowledge the fact that the two people who sat in front of Arthur in maths class were actually male, and that Francis could see that even though he sat in the back corner of the class. In maths class, everyone with an empty partner seat, including Arthur's, either refused or was too uncomfortable to sit beside him, so he saved the teacher from having to make some sort of difficult decision and willing sat back there by himself.

Arthur, meanwhile, was staring at the object Francis held. A rose. A beautiful, entirely in-bloom rose, with petals a dusty dark pink colour at the very tips and darkening into a deep red velvet the closer they got to the stem. Not one petal was tarnished, and not one part of the stem was crushed. But he couldn't admire the beauty, because many other thoughts were sifting through his mind.

Could Francis be the one who...?

No, he couldn't.

But Arthur, of course, just had to ask.

"Why were you bringing it into my room?"

The way Francis tensed gave Arthur all the answer he needed. Francis knew he was caught.

"I...," the French teenager's face had fallen, and he was suddenly shifty and nervous. His eyes kept darting between the window and Arthur's face, as if afraid. "Well...," he began. "It's... It's the 22nd."

"Yes?" Arthur twitched.

"Of April."

"I am aware."

"And tomorrow is... April 23rd."

"I have a calendar."

"...Which is your birthday."

More silence. Francis could swear that he heard crickets chirping.

Arthur could swear that he heard frogs.

"You..." Francis should have braced himself, but he didn't, because he was just that irrational of a person and he still hoped for one measly second that Arthur wouldn't... "_Stalker_."

And for the second time that night, Francis' hopes were dashed.

"You bloody stalker, you wanker! Do you get some sort of sick pleasure out of seeing me get so... happy... over having a constant rose everytime I wake up on my birthday? How did you even know it was my favourite flower?" Arthur ranted, his voice continuously raising until Francis was praying to any god that Arthur's parents didn't wake up and really call the police.

"You get happy?" Francis muttered, suddenly almost timid, forcing Arthur to freeze once more.

"Uh, well, y-yes?" Arthur awkwardly said, and Francis' face glowed for a split second. "But you already knew that. You probably watch me like the-"

"I didn't know you enjoyed the rose. I'm glad."

"...You don't wait until I wake up to see my reaction?"

"No. And I knew it was your favourite flower because you said so during World History class."

Arthur stared blankly at Francis. Unable to respond in what he felt was an appropriate way, he huffed and straightened his childish pajamas, before glaring hatefully at the other boy. "And here I thought that the person giving me the rose was someone _decent._ When were you planning on telling me about your stupid prank, brat? Don't bother giving me those again. They come from you, so they must be disgusting," Arthur answered. He planted another scowl on his face, still internally confused, and turned around on his heels to walk out. Where he was going, he had no idea. After all, he was kind of just walking out of his own room. But he felt anxious and uncomfortable with the words he had said, and didn't want to be anywhere near the source. Arthur was suddenly overwhelmed with a rather sad feeling, and linked it to the loss of the mystery behind his 'birthday rose.' He was still disbelieving to the fact that the one giving him those roses had been the French teenager all along, and was too shocked to handle it well.

Yet, the British teenager was jolted out of his shock by a sound he hadn't heard in a long time, and never, not ever, from the one figure behind him. He was afraid to turn around.

Arthur was afraid to turn around to the sound of choked sobs.

He did, anyway.

Francis had a hand clamped over his mouth and his eyes were squeezed shut, vainly trying to block out the small noises he was making. His fingers were already glistening with the liquid raining down his cheeks, and he was slightly shaking his head as if denying some fact that Arthur didn't know. His long hair curtained his face in waves.

Arthur gaped.

Francis never cried. He was supposed to be loud and perverted and disgustingly flamboyent - not sad and tearful. Sure, Arthur should have figured that he was emotional, but he had never really...

And before Arthur could register what was happening, his cheek was already damp with tears that were not his own.

There was a gasp from beside him as Arthur wrapped his arms tightly around Francis. Arthur was smaller, younger, thinner, and shorter, but that didn't seem to matter at all. The side of Arthur's face was pressed against Francis' cheek while the French boy stiffened, ready to jump away, but Arthur didn't let him. A part of Arthur's mind informed him that Francis was hurt, and that Arthur was the cause for that hurt.

Arthur never hugged anyone. He was anything but a hugger.

But then again, Francis was suppose to be anything but a crier, right?

Arthur was hugging Francis sideways, and he adjusted himself so that they were chest to chest, but not before his hand brushed over the rose. The perfect rose, with its perfect petals and its beautiful colour. His national flower. The flower of... love? Compassion?

It didn't seem to be representing love or compassion at that moment. He gripped it tightly and pressed his chin to Francis' shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry, fro-Francis. Francis...," Arthur didn't notice until that moment how little he called Francis by his real name, "Francis. Stop crying." He liked the sound of it on his tongue.

Francis was true to heart crying by that point. The position of Arthur had caused his hand to lift from his face, and he was using Arthur's shoulder as a substitute. He tried pushing Arthur away at the same time that he tried keeping him close.

Arthur was going to ask why Francis never told him that he was the one who kept giving him roses...

...but Arthur already knew why.

And he'd make sure that it never happened again.

They had their differences, and it showed with their arguements. But Arthur couldn't bring himself to let go. Not even after Francis quieted down and dried his eyes.

"...Arthur?" Francis croaked, very possibly only then having fully registered that Arthur had been hugging him for the past who-knew-how-long.

"I'm here."

"Why are you..."

"I'm here."

Silence.

"But you..."

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

"Thank you for the roses, Francis," Arthur whispered. It felt taboo to break the oddly comfortable silence that rang throughout the room. He felt Francis nod against his shoulder. "They made me happy," continued the Brit. "But... I only made you feel horrible in return, didn't I?"

No nod, but no shake of the head either.

"Why are you hugging me?" Francis' voice was raspy. He had been crying for quite a while, then. He tried pushing the other boy away again, but Arthur only held on tighter. He didn't know how to respond to the question (_because you deserve to be hugged, because you aren't hugged enough, because I haven't hugged you enough, because I made you cry, because you don't deserve to cry, because I don't want you to cry, because you don't deserve to be rejected, because I don't know how you're still here after all this torment, because I regret everything I've done, because everyone would regret everything they've done if they just knew you, because I don't know you as well as I thought, because you aren't disgusting, because you are more different than I took you to be, because you have more to you than I see_), so he came up with one of his own.

"How about you get the rose this time?" Arthur pressed the rose tighter against Francis' chest.

"Why?" Francis' voice was breathy.

"_Because_ this time - they get to make _you_ happy."

* * *

**A/N: **

**This is a one-shot dedicated to my good friend Paychu's birthday!**

**Yes, a depressing one-shot. But, hopefully, it holds some significance to her. **

**Happy birthday, girly.3 Keep those roses.**

**Chien - dog**

**Rosbif - roastbeef (or so, I hope that's what I mean. I haven't checked for a few years. It would be a French insult towards English food. While France had frogs, England had roastbeef).**


End file.
